


Watching Illya

by cybel



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-10-30 18:37:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17833982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cybel/pseuds/cybel
Summary: Napoleon is not the only one watching Illya.





	Watching Illya

**Author's Note:**

> The original version of this story was printed in the MUNCLE fanzine _Dyad 4_ (1990), published by Mkashef Enterprises and edited by Dovya Blacque. The zine's Fanlore page can be found [here](https://fanlore.org/wiki/Dyad).

"How much longer is this so-called assignment supposed to last?" Napoleon Solo asked his Russian partner irritably. 

"You know the answer to that question as well as I do, Napoleon," Illya said patiently from beneath the wide-brimmed straw hat that shielded his fair face from the full force of the tropical sun. "Until Manos signs the agreement and boards a plane for home. Probably another week. Maybe more the way things are going." 

"Another week?" Napoleon moaned. "I'll go stir crazy by tomorrow. Then what? Waverly will have to find me a padded cell somewhere. What good will I be to U.N.C.L.E then?" 

Illya smiled at Napoleon's blatant exaggeration and pulled his sunglasses down on his nose, peering at the American over them. "Really, Napoleon. Just because there are no beautiful women on the island on whom you can exercise your fabled charm does not mean there is nothing to do here while the negotiations are in session." 

"Oh yeah? Name me one thing."

"Sunbathing. Swimming. Walking—"

"I said _one_ ," Napoleon muttered peevishly, squinting out over the seemingly endless expanse of ocean. _If only there was something, anything, interesting to see out there, like maybe a THRUSH attack force_ , he thought wistfully. _Fat chance_. "And there are good reasons for not doing any of those things," he added aloud. "Sunburn. Sharks. Sand."

"You didn't let me finish," Illya continued mildly. He thought for a moment then added to his list, "Reading."

"All the books in the library are in Spanish."

"A language you should have learned years ago."

"I tried. All my language circuits burned out after I mastered English. And a bit of Italian, of course."

"A severe limitation in an agent." Illya's brows drew together in a thoughtful frown. "Thinking," he came up with after a moment.

Napoleon snorted. "I've been doing too much of that, and the only conclusion I've been able to draw from all of my cogitations is that I'm irrefutably, terminally bored out of my gourd." His petulant frown turned into a sudden grin. "Hey," he said delightedly, "I'm a poet."

"Hardly," Illya replied dryly. He stood up, brushing the sand off his swim trunks and the backs of his trim, muscular thighs. Days in the sun had darkened his usually pale skin to a burnished gold against which his sparse blond body hair appeared almost white. "But you are right about sunburn. We had better go in before we start looking like boiled lobsters."

"Hmmm? Oh. Right." Napoleon got up and, throwing his towel over his shoulders, silently followed the other man up the beach toward the villa.

 

Their current assignment did not sit well with Napoleon, hadn't from the start. To send two of U.N.C.L.E.'s finest to oversee security for the trade negotiations between the United States and Santa Dolores was a farce, a concession to the paranoia of the diminutive Central American country's leader, Governor General Alejandro Manos, who saw enemies everywhere. U.N.C.L.E. would never have gotten involved in such an affair if not for the fact that the chief U.S. negotiator, Harding Canfield, was one of Mr. Waverly's oldest and dearest friends. 

In fact, the whole operation, from top secret island locale to radar web to hand-picked skeleton staff to U.N.C.L.E. involvement had been deemed necessary only from a diplomatic, certainly not from a security, standpoint. The U.S. wanted the agreement with Santa Dolores, but the simple truth was that no one really had any reason to oppose it. Except, of course, in the questionably balanced mind of Alejandro Manos.

Napoleon had disliked Manos' pompous manner and ostentatious pretensions from the moment they met. In fact, he had found himself suppressing an almost overwhelming urge to wipe his hand on his trousers after Manos had shaken it, and after that his opinion of the Governor General had only worsened with each subsequent encounter.

The American sighed again, feeling martyred to an unjust cause. And he couldn't even get a little sympathy for his plight from his own partner. In fact, if anything Illya seemed to be enjoying himself.

Odd, that. Of the two of them, Illya was usually the one with the shorter fuse and the lower tolerance for fools, and Manos was certainly a fool. Yet Illya's famous temper and sharp tongue had been nowhere in evidence lately. Rather, he seemed to have become more and more relaxed as the days of enforced inactivity went by. It wasn't like Illya. It wasn't like Illya at all, and Napoleon had been keeping a surreptitious eye on his partner ever since he had noticed the strangeness of his behavior.

"Oof!" Wrapped up in his thoughts, Napoleon did not notice that Illya had paused in his trek up the beach and turned back toward him. Consequently, Napoleon rammed headlong into the other man, knocking the wind out of both of them.

"Really, Napoleon," Illya chided him mildly. "I realize that there are no eligible females on the island, but I fail to see why that justifies everyone in trying to make a pass at _me_."

Napoleon had instinctively put his arms around Illya when they had collided, and their bodies were still pressed tightly together. "Oh. Sorry," he said, attributing his current breathlessness to their collision. He let go of Illya, but before he could move away he suddenly registered what Illya had just said. "What do you mean, _everyone_?" he asked suspiciously.

Illya looked at his partner with a cryptic tilt of the head, his sunglasses effectively hiding his eyes from Napoleon's wary scrutiny. "It is nothing I cannot handle," he said, only then taking a slow step backward so that he was no longer leaning against the American. "Manos," he added wickedly, "is Spanish for 'hands', you know."

"You mean—" Napoleon's mouth dropped open then quickly clamped shut. "That smarmy bastard," he murmured, turning suddenly expressionless brown eyes toward the villa.

Illya made a dismissive gesture. "Don't concern yourself, Napoleon," he said. "He's really quite harmless. In fact, I'm afraid I was a bit hard on him. I believe he has learned his lesson."

Napoleon eyed the deceptively delicate-looking Russian appraisingly. He found it easy to imagine the confrontation between Illya and Manos. The big, strutting peacock wouldn't have stood a chance. Napoleon smiled at the mental image. "Yes," he said, "I imagine he did."

"Of course," Illya went on, removing his sunglasses and gazing levelly at his partner out of astonishingly clear blue eyes, "my answer might be quite different if the right man were to ask."

Napoleon felt a moment of utter shock and disorientation as the meaning of Illya's words struck home, but before he could stammer a reply he noticed the gently mocking half-smile his partner was trying unsuccessfully to hide. Vaguely disappointed, the American smiled in return. "Well," he said, "if such a man shows up, I'll be sure to direct him to you." 

Illya laughed. With an indulgent shake of his head, he turned and resumed his trek up the beach while Napoleon, his eyes gleaming speculatively, watched his departing back.

 

As had become a daily routine, Manos and Canfield retired to the library for drinks after dinner, accompanied by the two U.H.C.L.E. agents. Manos, who refused to discuss business after 5 p.m.—another quirk that annoyed Napoleon since it extended the length of time the negotiations were taking—led the conversation, as always, toward his favorite topic: himself. 

"Yes," Manos was saying, puffing out his chest even further than usual, "I showed remarkable aptitude for politics even as a child. My mother named me Alejandro, after Alexander the Great, of course. She had the sight, you understand. She knew even before I was born that l was destined for greatness. May she rest in peace." He paused to cross himself then turned toward Illya, who was standing in a corner unobtrusively leafing through one of the many books lining the walls of the library. "Por favor, my Russian friend, won't you join us for a brandy?"

Illya didn't look up from his book. "No," he answered distantly. "Thank you."

Manos' smile thinned momentarily, then he shrugged and turned his attention toward Canfield, whom he proceeded to engage in an animated conversation regarding his extensive wine cellars.

Napoleon, pleased by Illya's attitude toward Manos, cradled his snifter of brandy in one hand and scrutinized the Governor General obliquely out of slitted eyes. Yes, the man's interest in Illya was obvious; Napoleon couldn't imagine how he had missed it before. Even as he talked to Canfield, Manos' eyes kept straying toward the Russian, and there was a barely concealed hunger in them that made Napoleon uneasy.

He began to wonder if Illya was right to discount Manos out of hand the way he had. The Governor General had a reputation for ruthlessness that belied his current jovial bonhomie. Still, he wanted his trade agreement. Surely he wouldn't do anything to jeopardize it.

Suddenly Manos stopped in mid-sentence, his eyes darkening. Napoleon, following his gaze, saw that Illya, engrossed in the book he was reading, had leaned back against the bookshelves so that his narrow hips jutted forward, throwing the soft mound of his genitals into sharp relief against the thin cotton of his slacks. His lips were pursed in a slight pout of concentration, and his pale hair glowed like spun gold in the nimbus of light from a nearby floor lamp.

Napoleon caught his breath at the sight and felt a surprising surge of empathy with Manos. _Yes_ , he thought, _of course he wants you. But he can't have you, Illya. You're mine._

On the heels of that unexpected thought, Illya looked up from his book and met Napoleon's gaze. His blue eyes widened momentarily, and a palpable wave of heat surged between them before Illya ripped his glance away and shut his book with a quick snap of his wrist.

Napoleon heard a strangled sound and turned to find himself looking into Manos' hate-filled face. _So much for pretending to be civilized_ , he thought. He smiled coldly and set down his drink. "If you'll pardon my partner and me, we should make a sweep of the grounds before retiring."

He nodded to Manos then to Canfield, who nodded back at him with a look of open amusement, "Illya?" Without a word, Illya set his book down and followed Napoleon out of the room.

They left the villa in silence, walking across the broad lawn to the low wall overlooking the ocean. Illya sat down on one of the stone benches there and asked, "What was that all about?"

"Don't you know?"

"No, I don't."

"Somehow I doubt that," Napoleon muttered. He sat down beside the Russian, trying to read his friend's body language, but the darkness was too deep. After a moment, he said, "Manos isn't quite the buffoon I took him for. He's dangerous."

Illya snorted softly. "You are just being paranoid."

Napoleon started to argue then stopped. "Be careful anyway," he said solemnly. "For my sake."

Illya's warm, rich voice wafted toward him out of the darkness. "Yes, all right. But I still think you're worrying about nothing. Manos might be capable of anything in his own country, but he won't try anything here. He has too much to lose and nothing to gain."

_Nothing but you_ , Napoleon thought but didn't say. He remembered the way Illya had looked in the library and shivered. He had never thought of Illya as a sexual entity before. In fact, just the opposite. Illya had always seemed mostly asexual to him. No, that was wrong. Not asexual, but rather un-sexual—uninterested, unapproachable. In all the years they had known one another, Napoleon realized, he'd never seen Illya make a sexual advance toward anyone, and Napoleon had always taken that fact for granted, had, in fact, relied on it. Why?

_Because I liked it that way_ , Napoleon silently admitted to himself. _Because I wanted him all to myself. I want him. Not just as a friend or a partner, but as a lover, too._ Then another thought hit him like a blow to the gut, _But does he want me?_

"What are you thinking, Napoleon?" Illya asked, startling the American.

Napoleon flushed, thankful that there wasn't enough light for him to see. "I was just wondering," he said carefully around the tightness in his throat, "if you were joking when you said you could respond favorably to a man." He swallowed hard, waiting tensely for Illya's answer.

The Russian didn't explode as Napoleon had halfway thought he might. Instead, he sat in silence for a long time, staring out over the calm water. Finally he said, so softly Napoleon could barely hear him, "You're asking me if I'm gay."

It was a statement, not a question, but Napoleon answered anyway. "Yes."

Illya paused for a moment. "If you mean have I had sex with a man, with men," he answered carefully, "then the answer is no. But if you mean have I wanted to have sex with a man, then the answer is yes."

Hope flared. "You've wanted to have sex with a man—not with men, just with one man?" Illya didn't answer. "With what man, Illya?" he asked quietly. "With me?"

Illya laughed hollowly. "Your infamous ego, Napoleon. Just because I said a man, must it be you?"

Napoleon grabbed Illya's shoulders, turning the Russian to face him. "Yes," he hissed, "it must be me."

"Napoleon?" Illya's voice quavered slightly, but whether from fear or desire Napoleon couldn't tell.

"I don't know what you're thinking," Napoleon said urgently. "If I could see your eyes, I'd know what to do."

This time Illya's laughter was a low rumble that heated Napoleon's blood and sent it racing to his groin. "The great Napoleon Solo doesn't know what to do in the dark? That must be a first. Let me give you a hint." Then Illya leaned forward and brushed their lips together.

With a strangled groan, Napoleon opened himself to the Russian's invasion, savoring the sheer beauty of Illya's tentative, passionate advance. Their tongues entwined, tasting and probing for long moments before Illya withdrew from the welcoming haven of his partner's mouth, drawing Napoleon's tongue into himself and allowing it free rein to explore. When they finally broke the kiss, it was out of the simple necessity to breathe.

"Illya," Napoleon murmured, pulling the other man tightly against his chest as they both struggled to regain their breath, "you didn't have to do that."

"Do what?" Illya asked contentedly. "Kiss you? But I did have to. I would have died if I hadn't, if you hadn't let me."

"Little chance of that!" Napoleon chuckled. "No, I meant you didn't have to pull back like you did and give me the lead. You're not a casual fling, Illya. I don't expect you to behave like one."

Illya drew away. "You are more experienced than I am, Napoleon, and more sexually aggressive. I thought it would be easier for you if I did not force you to take on an entirely new role with me. Besides, I'm used to deferring to your lead in our working relationship, so I would not expect you to—"

Napoleon gripped Illya's shoulders more firmly and gave them a little shake. "This has nothing to do with our working relationship. This is love, Illya. No rules except those we decide on. And the first rule is that we are equals with equal rights and equal responsibilities. We'll figure out the rest as we go along."

"This is love?" Illya repeated wonderingly. "Did you say this is love?"

"Of course it's love. What did you think it was?" Illya just shook his head and closed the distance between them once again.

 

In deference to propriety, Napoleon and Illya let go of each other's hands and took a step apart as they re-entered the villa. Napoleon stole a quick look at his new lover—his first real look since their relationship had changed forever under the starlit, moonless tropical sky, and was brought up short by what he saw. How could he ever have thought of Illya as sexless? The man he saw now could have been a model for a statue by Michelangelo. Heavy-lidded, soft eyes gazed up at him with an erotic self-awareness that sent goosebumps skittering across Napoleon's flesh, and Illya's mouth, curved in a tantalizing smile that would have put the Mona Lisa to shame, was ripe and swollen from his kisses. It was all Napoleon could do to keep from reaching for him again right there in the middle of the foyer.

Before he could make a fool of himself, however, some sixth sense warned Napoleon that they were not alone. Looking around, he saw Manos standing at the top of the stairway staring down at them. Napoleon could sense the man's malevolence, and he unconsciously moved nearer to Illya, but Manos turned away without a word and disappeared down the hall toward his room. 

"You really are worried about him, aren't you'?" Illya asked. 

Napoleon's jaw tightened. "Yes," he said gravely. "He gives me the creeps.”

Illya laid a reassuring hand on his wrist. "I told you I would be careful, although I still think you are over-estimating the situation. But now we have more important matters to discuss." Illya's gaze wavered and dropped. "Your room or mine?" he asked.

"God," Napoleon said unsteadily, his knees suddenly feeling weak, "what have I gotten myself into?"

"What do you mean? Do you already regret—" 

"No!" Napoleon took a deep, calming breath and repeated softly, "No. I just meant that you're so damned beautiful, and I want you so damned much that if I don't get you to bed soon I'm likely to embarrass myself and ruin my reputation in the process."

Illya's relieved smile quickly turned sultry as he said, "I think that can be arranged." He turned and started up the stairs, a dazed Napoleon following closely behind him. Over his shoulder, Illya said, "You never answered my question, Napoleon. Your room or mine?"

Napoleon, his attention firmly fixed on the Russian's delectable ass, answered distractedly, "Oh, mine. Definitely mine." 

"Why definitely?"

"Because it's closer, of course."

 

Napoleon woke up the next morning to find himself lying in Illya's arms, his head pillowed on his lover's flat chest. He lay still, savoring the unusual sensation of being held in strong arms. _This could definitely become a habit_ , he thought, sighing in utter contentment.

"So, you are finally awake, sleepyhead." Illya bent forward to run the tip of his tongue over Napoleon's exposed ear.

Napoleon shuddered at the ticklishly arousing sensation and pulled himself up on one elbow to look down at Illya. "You've been awake for awhile, have you?" he asked with a yawn as he took in the Russian's alert features.

"For hours," Illya agreed smugly, reaching up to lap sensuously at the indentation in Napoleon's lightly stubbled chin.

"Stop that," Napoleon scolded, pressing one hand into the other man's chest and forcing him back down on the bed. "You're worse than a cat with that tongue of yours." He left his hand where it was, though, turning the gesture into a gentle caress.

"That is because you taste so good." Illya vibrated deep in his chest, arching slightly into Napoleon's touch. 

"Purr like a cat, too." Napoleon leaned down to nip gently at one small nipple, eliciting a sharp intake of breath and a playful cuff to the side of his head. Laughing, he added, "Guess it's a good thing you don't have claws as well."

"Napoleon, has anyone ever told you that you talk too much?"

"Frequently."

"Then shut up and kiss me." This time their kiss was slow and thorough. 

"Good morning, lover," Napoleon said belatedly when the kiss finally ended.

"The best ever," Illya agreed. "But," he added, "it is time to get up."

Napoleon glanced at the clock and quickly sat up. "Shit! Why didn't you wake me earlier?" He reached for his robe. "If we're both late to breakfast this morning it'll be pretty obvious what we've been up to."

Illya's dreamily sensuous expression faded, leaving Napoleon to mourn its passing. "Would it bother you so much if they did know?" the Russian asked. 

Napoleon could see how important the question was to his lover, and he didn't hesitate to answer it. "No," he said truthfully. "I don't care what anyone thinks, but that doesn't mean we should be indiscreet. Besides, even if Manos knows, or thinks he knows, what's going on between us, it would hardly be a good idea to rub his face in it."

"And Canfield is a friend of Mr. Waverly," Illya said uneasily, "and might pass on any suspicions he has about us."

"Is that what's bothering you?" Napoleon laughed. "Listen, Illya, Mr. Waverly is the product of a British Boys' School upbringing. I seriously doubt that anything two consenting adults can get up to in the privacy of their own bedroom would shock or even particularly interest him, even if those two adults are U.N.C.L.E. agents. So long as they don't let it interfere with the job, that is."

"Do you really think so?" Illya sounded relieved but still somewhat doubtful. "In my country—"

"U.N.C.L.E is your country now. Don't worry. Everything will be fine. Now get up. We have to get going." He threw back the sheet, exposing Illya's nude body to the cool morning air.

Illya jumped out of bed and fumbled with yesterday's discarded clothing. He grimaced in distaste. "If anyone sees me in the hallway on the way to my room, the jig, as you Americans say, will be up. Next time I will bring a change of clothes and shower here."

"Good idea," Napoleon agreed with a happy grin. There was going to be a next time. While Illya finished dressing, Napoleon checked up and down the hall then gave him the all clear, patting his rump affectionately as he left. 

Heading toward the bathroom for his own shower, Napoleon paused to gaze down at the shambles they had made of his bed. He shook his head in wonder as images of their lovemaking replayed themselves in his mind, setting shivers loose along his spine. Lovemaking. He had almost forgotten how different making love was from just having sex. And the fact that he had been making love with a man instead of a woman had made surprisingly little difference. The mechanics varied somewhat, but the emotions were the same. Love was love, after all, and he did love Illya.

Napoleon drew a deep breath as his body remembered his lover's mouth, wet and hot and demanding on him, remembered his strong hands exploring and possessing him. Illya had taken as well as given, and Napoleon had surrendered to him willingly, lustily, finding it a relief to have the initiative taken from him for a change. How could he go back to casual relationships and one night stands after what he had shared with Illya last night? He couldn't. More importantly, he didn't want to.

Suddenly he noticed that, while he was wrapped up in his thoughts, he had sat down on the bed and was now rubbing his hand caressingly over the pillow where Illya's head had rested a few minutes before. _Yes, you've got it bad, all right_ , he thought, shaking his head in amazement. Turning his caress into a business-like smoothing and fluffing of the pillow, he stood up and continued his interrupted trip to the bathroom.

 

Over the next couple of days nothing untoward happened. The talks progressed slowly, and in between times Manos continued to watch Illya while Napoleon, in his turn, watched Manos. If the man knew about the new relationship between the agents, and Napoleon was certain that he did, he gave no further outward sign of that fact. Indeed, although his fascination with Illya clearly continued, his glances in the Russian's direction had become veiled and impossible to read. 

Even with Illya lying safely in his arms each night, Napoleon could not entirely relax. Lacking proof, his lover still didn't consider Manos a threat. Illya simply could not conceive that Manos desired him enough to cause trouble, and even if he did, he could not imagine that the man was a match for either of them much less the two of them together. In fact, as the days passed and the talks drew nearer their conclusion, Napoleon almost convinced himself that Illya was right. Almost, but not quite.

 

Finally, on the fifth day after the two agents had become lovers, Canfield announced at the dinner table that the negotiations had been completed. "The final draft of the agreement is being typed even as we speak," he said. "Tomorrow morning we will hold the official signing ceremony, and by afternoon we should all be on our way home." He smiled benignly around the room.

"Here, here," Napoleon cheered under his breath. He turned politely toward Manos. "My congratulations, Governor General, to you and your people."

"Thank you, Mr. Solo. Tomorrow will be a great day for my country. For the first time in our history, we will become a part of the world market. It is another great victory for my regime, and a great personal victory for myself."

_Oh, please_ , Napoleon thought, hiding his aversion behind his napkin.

"And now, my friends, let us retire to the library for a toast." Manos pushed back from the table and stood up, prompting the others toward the door with an expansive gesture. Napoleon noted affectionately that Illya was still gazing regretfully down at his unfinished dessert as the rest of them filed out of the room. 

By the time Illya reached the library, Napoleon and Canfield were already taking their seats, and Manos was standing at the bar with his back to them. As Illya crossed the room to stand beside Napoleon's chair, Manos brought over two glasses, giving one to Canfield and the other to Napoleon before returning to the bar for the remaining two, one of which he handed to Illya while keeping the fourth for himself. Taking a step back, he raised his hand with a flourish and said, "I wish to offer a toast: To goals achieved, and to goals soon to be achieved. To getting what we want, or," he looked at Napoleon with a sly smile, "to at least ensuring that no one else gets it. _Salud_!" He raised his glass to drink, but as he did so Napoleon, rising from his own chair to join the toast, jostled his arm, spilling wine on the other man's shirt.

"Unforgivably clumsy of me, Governor General," Napoleon said solicitously, setting his glass down and reaching into his pocket. "Dear me, I seem to have come away without a handkerchief. Illya, may I borrow yours?"

Illya, looking confused and wary, murmured assent and, setting his own glass down next to Napoleon's, reached into his pocket and handed his handkerchief to his partner, who proceeded to dab ineffectually at the red stains on Manos' shirt.

"Please, Mr. Solo, there is no need—"

"I insist," Napoleon assured him graciously. "There," he said with one last wipe, "that's the best I can do. I'm afraid your shirt is ruined, though. You must allow me to replace it for you."

"It is of no consequence. If you will excuse me, I will go change."

"But first the toast," Napoleon urged. He deftly took the now empty glass out of Manos' hand and replaced it with one of the two Illya and he had set down. Then he picked up the other one and carried it with him toward the bar, only to knock it over when he got there, causing the glass to shatter in the small sink.

"I don't know what's wrong with me today," he said with a shake of his head. A moment later, he returned with two new glasses and handed one of them to Illya, keeping the second for himself. 

"Now," Napoleon said, "what was it? Oh yes—to achieving our goals and getting what we want. _Salute_!" he said, adding an Italian twist to Manos previous toast. So saying, he took a large sip from his glass, as did Canfield and Illya. Manos, however, just stood frozen, staring in horror at the glass in his hand.

"Governor General," Napoleon's voice was velvet, "is there something wrong with your drink?"

Sweat broke out on Manos' face. "No, of course not." He tried to smile, but it was a dismal failure.

"Then. Drink. It." The velvet was gone, replaced by steel.

For one moment it seemed that Manos would follow Napoleon's razor-edged command, but halfway to his mouth his hand began to shake violently, and he tossed the glass away from him in revulsion.

"What was in the wine, Manos? Poison? Is that how you planned to ensure I couldn't have what you couldn't get?" The velvet was back in his voice, and it sounded much more dangerous than the steel had.

Napoleon took a step forward, and Manos cringed back. "You can do nothing to me!" he blustered. "I am a head of state. This is neutral ground! You can do nothing to me!"

"No, he can't." The quiet authority in Canfield's voice stopped Napoleon's forward motion. The kindly old diplomat was gone, and the man who stood there with controlled rage apparent in every fiber of his being reminded Napoleon of no one so much as the head of U.N.C.L.E. himself. "He can't, but I can," Canfield continued. His contempt was apparent as he looked at Manos. "There will be no signing tomorrow, Governor General. No trade agreement. The United States does not deal with attempted murderers."

"You cannot get away with this!"

"You are mistaken. It is you who cannot get away with it. Go back to your country with your tail between your legs like the cur you are. The United States will do just fine without the agreement, but will you? Once we make it clear that you and you alone are responsible for dashing your people's hopes for a better life, I wonder how long it will take them to find a leader who is more responsive to their needs? Not long, I imagine. Now get out of my sight. There will be a plane waiting for you on the runway in half an hour. Be on it, or find your own way home."

Thoroughly cowed, Manos slunk from the room without a backward glance.

"That was impressive, Mr. Canfield," Napoleon said respectfully. "Thank you."

"Piffle. It was nothing. Alexander Waverly thinks the world of you two, and he's the best judge of character I've ever met. Besides, Manos struck me wrong from the start. Now I know why, though I can't imagine how he hoped to get away with it."

"Oh, that's easy enough to figure out," Illya interjected thoughtfully. "If the poison was slow-acting, we would have been far away from here before it took effect, and both of us have many enemies. Besides, even if Manos were suspected, he would have been back in his own country with the trade agreement already signed and in effect, and who could have proven anything?"

"Speaking of the agreement, you won't get in trouble for negating it, will you?" Napoleon asked.

"Trouble?" Canfield laughed. "Lord no. Not when I explain the reason. With modifications, of course," Canfield added at the younger men's troubled frowns. "Besides, I won't be at all surprised if I’m back at the table negotiating with a new Governor General before the year is out. Don't worry yourselves on my account. "Well," he rubbed his hands together in satisfaction, "I'm going to bed. Spending so much time in that man's company has been tiring as well as tiresome. Good night, Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin."

"Good night, sir," the two men returned in chorus.

When they were alone, Illya took a deep breath. "Well, you were certainly right about Manos. How did you know what he had planned?"

Napoleon shrugged. "I didn't. I just acted on instinct, that's all."

"Remind me to always trust your instincts in the future." Illya took a sip from the glass he still held. "Napoleon," he asked quietly, "which one of us do you think he meant to kill? Or do you think he meant to kill both of us?"

Napoleon shrugged. "Does it matter? The man's mad, after all, and his attempt failed."

"For a moment I thought you were going to kill him."

"For a moment, so did I." A shadow passed over Napoleon's face. "If he had hurt you, I think I would have."

"I have been hurt before. I will be hurt again, perhaps even killed. In our profession we are always at risk."

"I know!" Napoleon said, a shade too loudly. He took a deep breath and started again. "I know that, but I don't know if I could stand it if anything were to happen to you. It was hard enough before, when we were just partners, just friends. Now—"

"Now," Illya said, silencing Napoleon with a finger pressed to his lips, "we have each other and tonight. We cannot let fear of tomorrow spoil what we have today."

"Because tomorrow may never come?" Napoleon asked, his eyes belying the lightness of his words.

"No," Illya murmured, closing the distance between them. "Because, if I have my way, tonight will last forever."

"Ah, my romantic Russian, are you a magician who can make time stand still?"

Napoleon sighed as his partner pressed their lower bodies together, but before his arms could close around him, Illya took a step back. "No, I'm not a magician, Napoleon. I'm just your lover. But if love cannot make time stand still, what can?"

Napoleon smiled and held out his arms. “Then let tonight begin."


End file.
